Always Coming Home
by Lirazel
Summary: “Somehow you all always knew that you would end up back here.” PostHogwarts oneshot RHr, HG


Always Coming Home

"Somehow you all always knew that you would end up back here." PostHogwarts oneshot (RHr, HG)

Perhaps this is too happily-ever-after to be altogether realistic, but I couldn't resist. The title comes from the book by Ursula K. LeGuin, the very talented writer of fantasy and science fiction.

_Disclaimer: I don't own _Harry Potter _or anything it entails, nor do I own the book_Always Coming Home_. No infringement is intended._

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Somehow you all always knew that you would end up back here—as if any of you ever thought you could get away. Everyone expected you four to finish up and move on and lead fantastically adventurous lives—maybe world-class Quidditch players or famous Aurors or talented Healers or hell, even Minister of Magic, one of you.

But after it was all over and the smoke and ash blew away in the healing wind and you found yourselves standing in the middle of a battlefield, somehow, inexplicably all alive, you each looked into each others' eyes and found that there was only one thing to do.

In the wake of hell, of blood and loss and darkness and fire, you need some sort of solace for your souls, a place to rest and build after so many years of running and tearing down. And there is only one place you can do that.

And you know you have to go home.

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Everyone expected you to take over Transfiguration for McGonagall after she became Headmistress, but you surprised them all by announcing that you were going to be the librarian and give Madam Pince a chance to retire.

Except Ron, of course, who slid long arms around your waist and whispered into your ear that he'd known all along that that was what you would do. And there is such a warmth, after so many long years of cold, to be known that well—and by him.

But he thinks that the reasons are obvious: you love books more than anything beside him and your friends and justice; you know that library better than anyone else; Tonks—Lupin, now—will make a fantastic Transfiguration professor. But you're not sure that even he knows the other, sadder reasons locked deep in your heart. After all the overwhelming, frightening noise of battle, the silence of the towering shelves of books is a balm. You spent so many happy hours in this place back when you were so innocent and carefree—relatively. And the other, deepest reason: you've never thought that you would make a good teacher. You would demand too much, stress out yourself as much as your students, spend far too much time that should be devoted to your husband and the family that you will have grading papers and pushing students. And most of all, darkest of all is your suspicion (fear) that the students wouldn't like you; you would be the teacher every student resents and secretly fears. And you could never, ever bear that.

And so you glide like a ghost through the piles of books in mingled shadow and light streaming from stained-glass windows. And all the students know your name and come to you when they need help with a project because, everyone says, you know _everything_ and exactly where it can be found (this amuses Ron to no end). And you are always so eager to help, but you also know when to leave students to their own devices, and your passion is infectious. And the students laugh a little at the reverence with which you treat the books, your eagerness to share a particularly useful or beautiful volume, but they also find it endearing and everyone loves you and the way you mother the whole castle.

And your little suite of rooms just down the hall from Gryffindor tower is slowly being overtaken by books from your personal collection, and you pretend not to laugh as Ron pretends to trip over the stacks. And Ginny strokes Crookshanks' fur when she pops over for a cup of tea before bed and Harry and Ron's laughter fills the rooms more and more often now.

And you love your quiet life: the students and the library all day and a fire and a book and a cup of tea and _Ron_ at night. And you ask for nothing more.

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Sometimes you wake up in the middle of the night and are struck by the humor of it all. Hermione is so used to you bursting out into raucous laughter at ungodly hours of the night that she just makes a wonderful little noise and rolls over and retucks your arm around her waist. And you hug her to you and shake with mirth because there's really nothing else to do.

Your Mum used to despair of you ever growing up enough to make anything of yourself—how she would shake her head in amazement if she could see you now! And McGonagall still gives you a slightly bewildered look sometimes as she passes you and a cloud of students in the hallway, and who can blame her? No one, not Mum or your teachers or least of all yourself would have ever pictured you like this.

Who could have ever guessed that you would be the first Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher in years who could hold the position more than one term? And who would have guessed that you would be _good_ at it, that your students would learn much and eagerly? Or that you would be everyone's favorite teacher, the one they come to with little problems, the one they chum with, the one they want to sit with them at meals and tell them stories?

And who would have ever guessed that you, who always sort of hated the learning part of school, would enjoy it? You ask the darkness this question one night, and of course Hermione answers with a sleepy but terse voice, "I did. Now go to sleep, Ronald Weasley." You don't obey, of course, but instead ponder the insanity of a world where you enjoy researching and look forward to classes and even take pleasure in being head of Gryffindor. You love everything about your job, and that is funny.

You love everything about your life in general. Never feeling second best anymore; finally being the man _you_ wanted to be. You feel useful now, training the future without having to use any of those terrible spells that still haunt your nightmares yourself. You're doing something no one else in your family ever has done—no more hand-me-downs for Ron Weasley. And the halls of Hogwarts are a welcome escape after those first few months following the Last Battle. You had always thought that you would enjoy fame and attention; you'd always been secretly—or not-so-secretly—jealous of Harry. But after the rivers of reporters and floods of photographers and oceans of false articles in various papers, you are thankful to escape to Hogwarts with Harry and Ginny and especially Hermione, who you can never quite believe is finally yours (sometimes you have to reach out and touch her to be sure she's real).

The Burrow was always your home, but it is gone now, and this is the only other place you would ever want to take its place. So many endless memories filling every dorm, hall, classroom, even bathroom. So very, very many, and more being made everyday.

You cuddle back up to your wife and drift off into contented sleep.

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Sometimes the papers pile up and the kids ask questions you don't have an answer for (where do they come up with this stuff?) and the plans for the wedding clutter your mind and you have to take away House points, and none of these are pleasant. But when you collapse exhausted into your bed at the end of the day, you know you wouldn't trade this life for anything.

After all, where else could you learn new Charms for fun and never have to worry about cooking (one trait your Mum did _not _pass down to you) and see your brother and best friend and fiancé everyday?

You spent most of your school years as the baby, longing to be included and in the thick of things and tired of being protected when you were sure you could take care of yourself. And that last year you lived those adventures you'd longed for and found that they meant death and ghosts and Tom's voice echoing in your head, and now you are happy to sit on the sidelines again.

Or perhaps not. Perhaps _this_ is real life. Perhaps grading essays and telling students to slow down in the hallways and sometimes canceling class on a particularly beautiful spring Friday afternoon is what life is really about. That, and gossiping with your favorite sister-in-law about old schoolmates and teasing your brother about that Fourth Year Hufflepuff who has such a crush on him and knowing that each day brings you closer to the one when you will finally bind your life to Harry's forever.

And you find that this castle, the one you grew up in and daydreamed in and were possessed in and fell in love in and wept bitter tears in is the only place you could picture yourself growing old in.

And you are proud, though you hide it well, that you are known as the fair one, the one the students come to when they have disagreements because they know that you will not play favorites. And your classes and tests are difficult, but not if the student truly paid attention in class and did all his homework and studied the night before. And you are always happy to stay after class and go over a particularly hard aspect of the lesson.

And you laugh at how excited the girls in your class get when they look through the book you've set aside to fill with scraps of fabric and magazine ads and handwritten plans for the wedding.

And somehow you feel that all is repaid when a wistful-eyed Fifth Year Ravenclaw knocks timidly on your office door and asks for advice, if hesitantly: she's loved Will Stover since First Year and will he _ever _notice her? And you can say with a secret, contented smile that love truly does conquer, if you give it time.

And you love most of all sneaking out to the old oak tree by the lake when all the students are in class. Because Harry is waiting there, hair as unruly as ever, hands in his pockets, glasses held together once again with a piece of tape, perfect and beautiful and so beloved.

That's what makes this home.

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You never dared dream of a life like this. No matter what you said or how you acted back then, you never really expected to make it through the last battle. You could never see further than standing face-to-face with Voldemort and speaking that last spell and knowing Light had won.

But if you had imagined a life after your Armageddon, you never could have imagined one this perfect. Because it is—perfect in its simplicity.

Quidditch—brooms and snitches and Beaters' bats and jerseys and strategies—is such a relief after killing curses and Dark Marks and Horcruxes. Going from being a living weapon to the one who teaches First Years how to kick off on their first broomflight is not as difficult as you would have expected and is just exactly the healing you need. Never mind if those same First Years can barely stutter their own names, eyes glued to your scars, when you ask them—or that the Seventh Years always trip over their own feet when you enter the room. You're used to that, and the freedom that is flight is well worth a little bit of awe, no matter how uncomfortable it makes you.

And then, of course, you get to sit on the teacher's platform at meals and watch covertly as the little First Year Muggleborns—the ones you fought for and your friends died for—gasp and gape at the Sorting Hat and the ceiling and the magnificent feast. And you think that perhaps all the sacrifice was worth it if it means that that wonder, that joy and innocence, can live on.

And you trail your fingers along banisters worn to silk by thousands of grubby hands and across ancient stone and antique tapestries and you feel the magic fill you up again, and you are eleven years old once more, wide-eyed with wonder at magic and belonging and as yet untainted by your destiny. And with every Seeker who catches the Snitch at the last moment, determining the game as she pulls up in triumph with the tiny gold treasure in her hand, you are thirteen again and such a little victory means everything to you. And every kid that you catch sneaking out in the middle of the night to raid the kitchens could be you or Ron or Hermione, and that's a deeper joy than you thought you would ever know. And that student, caught red-handed, can never figure out why you just wink at him and walk away down the hall, whistling an old tune instead of assigning detention.

And you think as you watch Ron's hand slip protectively over Hermione's belly when they think you aren't looking (they're convinced that they're so sneaky) and look at Ginny who is yours, finally, that this isn't such a bad place to build a family.

After all, it's the only home you've ever known.

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Life is a little weary and occasionally stressful and sometimes annoying and more than often monotonous or draining. And you will frequently wake up in the middle of the night, covered in sweat and humming with the sorrow and terror of nightmares that were all too real. And there are some scars, of course, that will never, ever heal, no matter how much time passes. And there are friends who fell, people you loved, whom you will never see again on this side, and sometimes that is hard to live with.

But life is also peaceful, shining with simple hope, chockfull of little wonders, glowing with mystery, beautiful around the edges. And the shadows are a small price to pay for being able to wake each morning and find to your delight that you're always coming home.

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